Bold Lies Read online

  Three men walked around the side of the house into the garden. They went to the back door and opened it with keys, slamming it behind them. Alex was gripped with fear. The men didn’t look the type to be dropping in on his friend for a coffee. They had the appearance of thugs: black jumpers, scruffy jackets, bald heads and bare-faced arrogance. They weren’t the sort of folk that Alex would associate with his friend. He waited, uncertain what to do. His heart pounded in his chest as he heard crashes from inside the house. Dismay flooded over him in hot sweat and he had no idea what to do next. Should he call the police?

  Before he could make his mind up, the back door opened again and the men reappeared carrying various items: a computer, some files and a suitcase. One of them looked directly at the shed and Alex ducked down beneath the window. He thought he might wet himself, and he was sure his racing heart was as loud as the thundering of horses’ hooves. He pinned himself against the wall and held his breath.

  Ten minutes passed and Alex tried to stand up, but his knees had locked. He knelt forwards and rubbed the back of his legs. They’d gone into cramp and he wanted to cry out, but he daren’t. When he was able to stand, he looked through the window again. There was no sign of the men.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was driving towards his own flat in Stratford. As he approached, he saw that one of the men he’d seen at George’s house was talking to his neighbour outside on the street. Alex threw his hood over his head and dipped down as far as he could without losing sight of the road and crashing. He prayed that his non-descript Vauxhall hadn’t been spotted. Looking back in the rear-view mirror, he satisfied himself that he was in the clear. He drove straight to Bethnal Green.

  He left his car in one of the car parks below a high-rise and sprinted through the alleyways towards the garages. His heart pumped in his chest and sweat collected on his brow, running into his eyes. He kept his hood up and glanced over his shoulder.

  His hands shook as he unlocked the padlocks on the outside of the garage. He quickly closed the outer door behind him and opened the one to the inner lab. Once in, he closed the door behind him and sighed. A coughing fit seized him as the smell assailed him, and he groped for the light switch, holding his breath. His mind whirred as he desperately tried to figure out what the hell was going on. The roof vents were open.

  The room was stripped completely bare except for two naked bodies, one on top of the other, flies landing on the bloated parts and dancing in the blood. Alex sank to his knees and looked into Emily’s eyes. She stared straight up, her mouth open as if in ecstasy at her lover’s prowess above her. Mike’s body straddled hers in an obscene embrace, and Alex knew that the scene was staged.

  He bent his head and a sob escaped from his mouth. His dear friends had been abused and their bodies defiled after their lives had been snuffed out. He couldn’t look at their injuries.

  Adrenalin shocked his body into action and clarified his brain. He took one last look at the corpses of the colleagues with whom he’d shared so much time, knowledge, love and laughter. Then he wiped his eyes, stood up and flicked the light switch off. He left both doors slightly ajar before running as fast as he could away from the garage. He wanted justice, he wanted revenge, but he wouldn’t get it hanging around waiting for the police to turn up. It would take them weeks to ask questions and wait for lab results. He knew how these things worked. He’d started in forensics many years ago. He’d be the prime suspect, and he was pretty sure that George was dead too. No, the only way to get what he was looking for was to command the scene from afar, electronically. He had all he needed.

  He couldn’t go back to his flat, but he didn’t have to. He drove to Bethnal Green Road and dumped his car outside Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then he walked to the Tube station and took the Central Line to Holborn, changing to the Piccadilly Line for Heathrow, where he bought a one-way ticket to Larnaca. Perhaps he’d make poor Aphrodite’s funeral after all.

  Chapter 6

  Kelly called her father.

  ‘Can I hitch a lift with Cumbria’s most eminent semi-retired coroner?’ she asked.

  Ted Wallis had bought a town house in Keswick to be nearer to his daughter. He’d told her that Carlisle wasn’t particularly offensive as cities went, but he’d never had a reason to live there, apart from his work at the mortuary in the bowels of the university hospital. It was convenient and logical, like most of his life had been. Now, at almost seventy, he’d begun to think about what might make him happy, and it was a new experience. He confided his innermost thoughts to Kelly, and she enjoyed listening. It was a new and intimate experience, and she wondered if he experienced it with his other daughters.

  He’d told her that he wanted to live inside the National Park, close to Kelly and the memory of her mother, Wendy. The house was a charming stone cottage-like dwelling, built for the well-to-do during the time of the booming pencil industry. Cumbrian lead was the finest in the country, but the mines, like all the others, had ceased to trade decades ago, before Ted was even born. Greenside lead mine was on one of the descent routes from Helvellyn, and Kelly had walked past it many times, peering into the windows of the abandoned sheds along the Glenridding Beck, which was popular with gorge walkers and made for a refreshing dip after a long hike. Ted told her that the Helvellyn range was beyond him now, but she disagreed, vowing to get him up there one of these days.

  The house’s most valuable feature was the off-road parking, and Kelly pulled in to the space and tapped on the door. It was open, and she went inside. Ted was waiting for her and they embraced. She’d accompany him alone today, leaving her team back at Eden House to work on the identity of the dead man. There was no reason for her to witness the autopsy – it was quite obvious that the bloke had died from a gunshot wound to his head – but this was an opportunity to see Ted at work, and learn from him, as well as to catch up.

  The fact that she had believed for forty years that her father was John Porter was something Kelly didn’t dwell on. After her mother’s death, she had decided that life was too short to squander on what-ifs and wherefores. When she’d first found out about Wendy’s illicit affair with the dashing pathologist, she’d acted like a petulant toddler. But after some soul-searching, she had grown out of the straitjacket of resentment and self-pity and now spent as much time with Ted as she could.

  It had been her idea for him to house-hunt in Keswick. He’d even joined a rambling group. Part of her wanted him to fully retire, but the thought of forging a relationship with a new coroner was something she wanted to put off for as long as possible. Plus, the work kept him sharp, and he was a young sixty-nine; still vital and shrewd. Semi-retirement for Ted actually meant training up junior pathologists, not necessarily a drastic reduction in hours, and so he was generally to be found either at his desk at home or staring through a microscope in Carlisle. His working life hadn’t changed all that much, but his personal life had reawakened. Kelly had made sure of that. His step was lighter, his eyes clearer and his face more open. He’d made new friends in the drinking establishments of Keswick, and he’d been on walks that he’d forgotten existed. Kelly was in fact a little envious of his free time.

  She noticed the photograph of her mother on the side. It had been taken forty years ago, before Kelly was born, and Wendy was wearing her emerald-green ball gown. Ted followed her gaze.

  ‘She was beautiful. Just like you, Kelly.’

  She waved her hand in front of her, batting away the praise.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to let your head get too big,’ he added.

  Kelly smiled at him. She could see that he missed Wendy terribly; they all did. Her nieces, her sister; all of them. She felt a pang of guilt that she had stopped checking in on Nikki. Her head told her that it was out of her hands: her sister didn’t appreciate her poking her nose in. But her compassion (and the voice of her mother) told her otherwise. With Dave Crawley out of prison, though, and his wife best friends with Nikki, she reckoned that now more tha
n ever she wouldn’t be welcomed. As always, prevarication won.

  ‘Did you say gunshot wound?’ Ted asked, shaking her from her musings.

  Kelly nodded. ‘I know, unusual round here or what?’

  Gun crime was the preserve of the Manchester ghettos, not the Lake District. Obviously Kelly had seen plenty of gunshot wounds in London, and Ted had worked and trained all over the world. But here in the Lakes, it was unheard of.

  ‘Weapon?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope, no sign of it, and we used gun dogs. They’re clean shots, from what I saw: and look professional. The stripping of the body was cool and calculated, not leaving us much to go on. Whoever did it doesn’t mind so much that we find out who the victim is, but he doesn’t want us to know exactly where and how he came to welcome a couple of bullets in his brain.’

  ‘Let’s hope that one is still in there, it’s possible. The trajectory of the first could cause the damage and the resultant force could slow the second and stop it dead.’ Ted said.

  ‘That’s what I’m counting on.’

  ‘Casing?’

  ‘Nope.’

  He picked up his briefcase and they left the cottage. Kelly drove towards the M6. In Carlisle, a body waited for them in a fridge. She already knew that the man hadn’t been in the boatshed long, because fly activity was in its earliest stages. He was post-rigor, but that only meant he’d been there for around eight hours. The corpse still stank, though, and she’d brought a handkerchief and perfume with her. It didn’t matter how cold a body was; it still radiated the sweet aroma of rot.

  ‘How’s Johnny?’ Ted asked. He glanced at her ring, bought by Kelly’s boyfriend last Christmas. It suited her, and was the only ring she wore. The rubies and bright yellow Indian gold complimented her dark brown hair, which was just becoming sun-kissed as summer approached.

  ‘He’s good. He just missed out on doing sub-twenty-four hours on the Lakeland 100, but he did bloody brilliantly.’

  ‘I’ll say. I hope he’s going to put some weight back on now.’

  ‘That’s what I said. I’ve been feeding him butter and cream.’

  ‘He’s not going to make a habit of it, is he, these ultra-marathons? It’s not good for the body.’ Ted grew serious.

  ‘But the butter and cream’s all right? I know. I think he’s proved a point, and that’ll be it. It’s sailing next.’

  Next year would be Johnny’s fiftieth and her fortieth, and they wanted to do something spectacularly different. Perhaps the Florida Keys. That was why they were taking lessons with Graeme. It wasn’t lost on her that it would be Ted’s seventieth next year too.

  Traffic was light on the motorway, and they arrived at the hospital in under an hour. No one would guess that the smart father-and-daughter couple who strode into the main entrance were on their way to the mortuary to examine a corpse.

  Kelly was familiar with the layout – she’d been there before – and she watched as Ted scrubbed up and gave out instructions to assistants. His energy and professionalism hadn’t flagged, despite his age, and it made an impression on her every time she saw him work. She didn’t reckon she’d still be a copper at that age; she’d have burnt out by then and would hopefully be living in a cottage at the foot of a fell, maybe with a partner, maybe not. The cadaver was wheeled into the room and placed on the slab. Kelly took out her perfumed handkerchief, Ted placed his glasses on the end of his nose, and they fell silent, apart from Ted’s dictation and the click of the camera.

  There was nothing unusual about the body apart from the gaping hole in the skull. No defensive wounds, nor any other injuries or haemorrhages. The guy had been taken out. X-rays showed that one single bullet was left inside the brain. Ted took a pair of long tweezers that looked like they belonged in a museum and began fiddling inside the man’s head, pausing occasionally to check the apparent paths of the bullets. Kelly watched as he pulled, but nothing came out so he tried again. He tutted and attached a camera to the instrument, then flicked on a monitor. Kelly knew that bullets did extraordinary things inside the human body: they rarely travelled predictably. This time, with the minuscule accuracy of technology, he located the small slug of metal, and pulled it out.

  ‘Bingo. Nine millimetre. Probably a Glock. It’s all I ever saw on cases like this in Manchester. Pistol for sure.’

  Kelly agreed that a Glock would be the weapon of choice for a criminal in the UK, but they’d still need to send it away for analysis. One day they might find the weapon, and no two bullets left a ballistic chamber in the same way. Each firing of a shot in its entirety caused a different configuration of damage. It was as solid as a fingerprint or a drop of semen, but without the gun, it was useless.

  ‘I’ll do toxicology and histology. You never know, he could have been drugged,’ Ted said. ‘Can I buy you lunch?’ he added.

  Kelly nodded, staring down at the man on the slab. She hadn’t really looked at his face when he’d been slumped over the captain’s wheel of The Lady of the Lake. He had a kind face; he looked like somebody’s grandfather. X-rays had already been taken of the jaw, and they were hoping for a name any time soon. For now, he was known as Mr Launch.

  Chapter 7

  Kelly read DC Emma Hide’s report on the Allerdale House burglary. Everything had to come past her for a signature. It was still a live case, and photographs of what the owner thought had gone missing had been distributed to forces up and down Cumbria. Specialist websites and magazines, as well as known criminals, were usually the first ports of call. The list included several sail cloths, two trailers, one small solid mahogany and oak support launch, a prized two-man sweep oar boat made in 1919 that had hung from the ceiling, three brand new engines, and an array of diving kit worth over two grand on its own. It was more than they had anticipated; the value of the stolen goods was inching up to half a million pounds, and that only included those with a price tag: one of the antique boats was priceless.

  Tyre tracks had been taken, but there were no witnesses and no CCTV on the private road leading to the house. The owner, with big plans to turn the property into a high-end leisure facility, wasn’t overly concerned about the money, just the fact that the oar boat had belonged to his grandfather, who had rowed it on the River Cam as a coxless pair for Magdalene College in the 1930s. However, the unusual nature of such a piece of craftsmanship would make it more difficult to conceal and sell, which worked in their favour.

  Kelly read that Allerdale House had passed to its current owner in March, after a long probate, but she also noticed that it wouldn’t entirely belong to him until a period of trust had elapsed. What really grabbed her attention, though, was Sebastian Montague-Roland’s comment that it was a shame that a visitor to the house had left earlier than scheduled, otherwise the burglars might have been interrupted and fled. Apparently, an old friend of his grandfather’s, George Murphy, had been staying there on his annual fishing trip.

  Kelly left her office and went into the incident room.

  ‘Emma? The Allerdale case. Have you managed to get in touch with George Murphy yet?’

  ‘No, guv, he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘Do we know who he is, and how long he stayed there?’

  ‘He was there a week and scheduled to return home yesterday, but presumably he left a day early. We’ve sent local uniforms to his address in Wanstead, east London, but there’s no answer. He isn’t at work either.’

  ‘Was he due to return to work today?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I wonder why no one saw him around the lake. He must have gone shopping, or bought a paper.’

  ‘None of the folk interviewed have mentioned it so far, guv.’

  ‘I would have thought Graeme would have known. He’s always sailing past, rubbernecking to get a glimpse of the place.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll ask him about it. I don’t suppose we have a photo of George Murphy?’

  ‘Not to hand, but he should be on the
Ravensword website.’

  ‘Ravensword? Why have I heard of that?’

  ‘It’s a massive pharmaceutical company in the East End of London. That’s where he works; he’s a scientist.’

  Kelly’s heart sank. She was reminded of when she lived on Old Ford Road with Matt. Lazy Sunday afternoons in the pub in Bow Wharf on the Regent’s Canal. She squeezed her eyes shut and massaged her temples.

  ‘You all right, guv?’

  Kelly smiled and nodded. Matt Carter came into her head again. Matt the twat.

  Emma went back to her computer and typed quickly. The Ravensword website came on the screen, and Kelly recognised the logo of a black raven sitting on top of the pommel of a golden sword and realised why she was familiar with the company. She’d never thought much of it before when choosing a bottle of shampoo or mosquito spray for her holidays.

  Diagrams of cells and brightly coloured strings of DNA, website forums, excerpts from learned journals, and photographs of starving Africans, presumably being helped by Ravensword medicines, flooded the home screen.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Kelly pointed to a bright turquoise spiky ball being invaded by orange slugs. Emma tapped on the play icon and they watched an animation of how one particular virus attacked liver cells.

  ‘I was rubbish at science at school,’ Emma said.

  ‘But amazing at poetry,’ Kelly reminded her. ‘I was crap at science too. Let’s find George.’

  Emma deftly navigated her way to the staff area. She scrolled through pages of mug shots until she came to a man in a white coat, beaming into the camera. He’d begun working for Ravensword fifteen years ago, in the neurocellular section. It sounded extremely grand and mystifying at the same time. Kelly craned her neck.

  ‘What is it, guv?’

  ‘Come out of that and bring up my emails.’

  ‘You’ll have to put your password in.’

  Kelly tapped her code in and her emails came up on screen. She opened one from Ted from earlier in the afternoon. It contained the initial coroner’s report and a selection of photographs from the autopsy. It was the first time Emma had seen the body found at the marina.